A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period


With no poetic ardour fir’d

I press the bed where Wilmot lay;

That here he lov’d, or here expir’d,

Begets no numbers grave or gay.

Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred

Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie

Stretch’d out in honour’s nobler bed,

Beneath a nobler roof – the sky.

Such flames as high in patriots burn,

Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;

And such as wicked kings may mourn,

When freedom is more dear than life.

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Poems in English 

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Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees

Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.

Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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Alexander Pope
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